


Scoring Position

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Dangerously Beautiful Zayn, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Golf, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sports, Wooing, all the, background ziam if you squint, kind of, sort of, they're all from the US
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles hasn’t pitched a perfect game, but if he closes out this final inning, he’ll get the win and bring handsome soccer star Louis Tomlinson home.  </p><p>[Or the one where they’re all athlete-type people (except Gucci model Zayn and overly-friendly sports journalist Niall) and long-fated lovers Harry and Louis finally get together after Liam plays in the Superbowl.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scoring Position

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZiamIsTheAnswer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiamIsTheAnswer/gifts).



> ZiamIsTheAnswer, I had lots of fun with your prompt! You asked for baseball star Harry, soccer star Louis, and football star Liam (with trophy wife model Zayn) and a post-Superbowl party hook-up. Here they are! You also asked for conflict and sports rivalry which didn't really happen, at all- Harry and Louis fell in love right off, more's the pity. Still! I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Warning: some homophobia/internalized homophobia. It's not really a plot point and there's no slurs, bullying, or self-hate- but as public persons, both Harry and Louis are in the closet. 
> 
> Also. This is a sports fic. I have never played any sport in my entire life.

**_Five Years Ago_ **

_Harry can’t find the bathroom. He’s at his first real hot shot house party since being called up to the majors and he’s about to piss his pants. Literally._

_He shoulders his way through the mass of bodies, lots of athletes he recognizes, mostly football and baseball players. In the kitchen, he knocks into rookie quarterback Liam Payne whose whiskey colored drink sloshes out of his glass and down the shirt of the man beside him. Thank god they both look more amused than perturbed as Harry stutters out an apology before dashing off to continue his quest._  

 _In the next a room, a dj has set up in the corner and people are shaking and grinding. He sees his new cross-town rival, All-Star Nick Grimshaw, flailing his arms around, much less coordinated on the dancefloor than the pitcher’s mound._  

_Harry feels like he’s in a bit of a trance (a painful, bladder-stinging trance) surrounded by wealthy, talented, beautiful people and more (expensive) alcohol than he’s ever seen before in one place._

_Most surprising are all the tall, beautiful women in tight dresses and high heels lounging in corners laughing with their friends, as they try to casually catch the eye of one or another muscular man. Harry can’t imagine how who would have known all these dozens of models to invite them._

_Most the men are wearing polo shirts and comfortable shoes, their fancy watches and heavy gold necklaces selling their status more than their actual clothing. Harry feels slightly out of place in his sport jacket and button up shirt._

_It’s feels like the college parties he’d snuck into with the boys from big league, only on a larger scale. He’d expected something fancier._

_With more accessible bathrooms, probably._

_Finally, he pushes open a door to see a sink and a tiled floor and, thank fuck, a toilet. Except that standing over said toilet is another man, dick in hand, pee streaming into it._

_“Oops!” Harry says, stumbling backward and falling hard against the door which clicks closed._

_The man at the toilet turns to look at him and, Harry lets out a breath, he’s really more a boy and loads smaller than most of the other dudes at the party._

_Also, he’s smiling at Harry, his blue eyes sparkling with laughter. Which is good._

_Except that neckline of his red shirt hangs low, inches below his collarbones revealing the top of a tattoo and an expanse of tan skin, glowing in the soft light streaming in through the window and setting Harry’s pulse racing. Which is decidedly bad._

_“Hi,” he says, zipping himself up. “Do you often stalk men into tiny bathrooms and watch them piss? Is that a thing for you? If so, then it’s probably not going to work between us, babe. Urine just doesn’t do it for me.”_

Babe _, Harry hears._ Babe babe babe babe babe _._

_The boy moves around Harry to the sink and begins to wash his hands. The sound of the rushing water is too much for Harry, who’s been holding it for what seems like decades._

_Harry moves to the toilet and fumbles with his belt. He has to go so badly it hurts so he doesn’t waste time with buttons and zips, just tugs the fabric down to his knees._

_“Nice ass,” the boy says, even though Harry’s sure that his jacket is covering him up rather nicely. Harry tilts his head to see that the kid is now drying his hands and watching Harry closely in return. He seems, like, unabashedly interested._

_Which, Harry could be reading him wrong. He’s been fooled by what turned out to be an elaborate game of gay chicken before. But the guy is_ not _looking away and Harry thinks he might be for real._

_He’s torn between shouting at him to be more careful- he could get himself permanently disfigured hitting on some of Harry’s teammates like this- and admitting his own interest, trying to see where this might lead._

_Taking in the curve of the kid’s own ass and his carefully styled hair, Harry wonders if maybe someone invites male ‘models’ to these parties, like for the gay athletes._

_Just as his piss hits the back of the toilet bowl, the boy reaches for the door handle. “See you ‘round, then,” the boy chirps, voice light and cheerful._

_Harry wants to stop him, to ask for his number or something, but he’s very caught up in the sweet relief of release of finally,_ finally _, being able to pee._

_“Shit!” Harry turns his head to see the other boy fumbling with the door handle, twisting it around ineffectually, the mechanism inside it refusing to catch and open. “Fuck. It’s broken, I think.”_

_“Ugh,” Harry grunts, still pissing. He can’t find it inside himself to be too concerned that this kid might be stuck in the bathroom with him a little while longer._

_“I think we’re locked in,” he says. Harry notes that he doesn’t seem all that put out either, so that’s good._

_Maybe tonight will be Harry’s lucky night, maybe he’s just met the boy of his dreams._

_He’d always imagined he’d have to wait till after his career to find love. That’s the story he’s heard from other closeted major league athletes: everything will be fine, if you just wait._

_But, Harry reasons, attitudes_ are _changing. Maybe…_

_The boy bends over to inspect the latch on the door and Harry glances again at his ass. Harry flips his imaginary cap inside out. Time to rally._

~

 

**Present Day**

Harry pinches his cheeks and pouts into the mirror. He’s too pale this time of year, too much time in the gym and not enough in the sun.

He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and lifts his chin. Not good enough. The collar on his purple polo isn’t doing anything for him. He reaches round behind his head to pull all his hair off his neck and up into a bun. It’s sloppy, he knows, but maybe it’ll be just mussed enough to suggest a leisurely morning of cuddling and blow jobs.

The thing is Harry wants to look good today. Sexy good. Louis Tomlinson is here- not just in the United States, but in the same city,the same exact place as Harry- and Harry needs to be on the top of his game. He can’t risk wiffing it, not again, not this time.

He reaches into his shirt, pulls out the little airplane charm, and kisses it for luck. It’s earned him three shutouts over the last six years and he’s counting on its help as he goes for a perfect game tonight.

As Harry moves to grab the door handle, it opens up into him jamming against him a little painfully. He grabs his forearm and looks up to see a familiar wide smile and two bright blue eyes.

“Clumsy as ever, Styles,” Louis Tomlinson chirps. His voice is warm and Harry thinks he sounds charmed by Harry’s awkwardness, a surprising and welcome change from the resentment and critique he receives from his trainers and teammates and fans.

Harry grins back, taking Louis in. He looks good, thicker and brighter in person than on snapchat, with more lines on his forehead and around his eyes.

Louis poses with one hand behind his head and another on his hip. “Well? Like what you see?”

Harry bites his lip and tries to smother his smile. He says, “You look, like, I don’t know, rugged or something.”

Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Rugged?” he asks and then reaches forward to tug and twist one of Harry’s nipples.

Harry squeals and slaps his hand away.

Louis walks over to the trough and shoots a look at Harry over his shoulder as he unzips his pants. “Gonna watch me piss? For old time’s sake?”

Harry nods. He has Louis’ perfect arse three yards away instead of three thousand miles. He doesn’t see any reason to increase the distance again. You don’t score by running the bases backward.

“How are you?” Harry asks. They’d texted the night before so Harry knows that Louis is very happy to be back in the states and especially happy to see his sisters for the first time months. But something about this trip has him jittery, too, more nervous than usual and he won’t tell Harry what it is.

Louis zips up his fly and the motion tugs the khaki fabric tighter across his ass. Harry swallows.

Turning around, Louis says, “A little creeped out, to be honest, Curly, as this is the second time I’ve met you and the second time you’ve cornered me in the bathroom. You should probably be careful about which men you follow into the toilets to watch piss. Not everyone’s as easygoing as I am.”

This is mostly true. Although, this time Louis followed _him_ into the toilet. Still, Harry doesn’t disagree. Instead, he watches Louis’ hands as he soaps them up and rinses them off. His fingers are shorter than Harry’s, nails a little more square, but they look sure and strong.

Harry imagines them opening him, one finger at a time, preparing him for a fucking. A shiver runs through him and he steels himself. It’s going to happen. Tonight, if Harry can stay on top of his game.

“I don’t how you got your organization to let you out and about on your own, you creep,” Louis says turning back to Harry and wiping his hands on the front of his pants.

“I’m very charming,” Harry tells him. “Everyone says.” They do, too. They’re always asking him to do press after games. No matter how many innings he manages to pitch, they’re inevitably shoving cameras and microphones in his face.

Harry likes to think it’s because they value his opinion, not because he’s one of the few guys in the locker with white skin and fluent English.

“Handsome,” Louis corrects, moving for the door. “I think you mean you’re very handsome.”

That’s not what Harry meant, but he’ll take it. It’s actually a promising comment, Harry thinks, as he follows Louis out into the lobby.

Zayn is lounging, spread out a black leather couch, cigarette tucked behind his ear, looking a practiced mixture of beautiful and bored. Harry likes hanging out with Zayn because he suspects that his good looks are a bit contagious. Like, Liam has become about a million times more attractive since he began to spend all his free time with Zayn.

When he sees the two of them approach, Zayn’s face transforms into something much younger and much less sophisticated as he smiles. He hugs Louis first, holding him a little close for Harry’s taste. When it’s his turn though, Harry pulls in just as close because the cologne Zayn’s wearing smells like heaven.

Harry breathes in deeply and he realizes that it’s loud enough to be obvious. To cover himself he says, “Is that Gucci?”

Unfortunately, Zayn pulls back to meet Harry’s eyes. “How did you know?”

Harry shrugs. He might have a print from Zayn’s current Gucci cologne campaign attached to his fridge, but that’s only because Zayn hasn’t sent him a recent selfie.

“Alright pretty boys, as the lad here, it’s my job to remind you that we’ve got sports to play,” Louis says. Harry thinks this is an unfair statement on two accounts. Louis is most certainly _also_ a pretty boy, what with his hair all gelled back into some sort of fancy european do.

 _And_ Harry thinks golf might not actually be a sport. It’s debateable. He’s debated it. With Louis. Over Skype. When they set this date three weeks ago. Which, now that he’s thinking about it, _Louis_ was the one arguing that golf didn’t require a high enough level of physical fitness to be considered an actual sport.

“You done frowning at me, Styles? Cause it’s not gonna get you a hole-in-one, no matter how hard you try.” Louis’ eyebrows dance up and down as he talks and Harry has difficulty processing his words.

“I’ve rented us a cart,” Zayn informs them, conversationally, flipping his phone between his fingers. “I woke up at fucking 8am to see you two bastards, so let’s make the best of it.”  

Harry tilts his head. Zayn’s voice is a little rough and there are lines below his eyes. Maybe he’s not his usual chill and perfect self.

“Liam’s gonna do great,” Harry says, reaching out to pat his shoulder.

Zayn narrows his eyes and shrugs out of Harry’s grasp. “Of course, he fucking is. He’s gonna fucking kill it tonight. He always does.”

“Do you need an American licence to drive this so-called ‘golf cart’?” Louis asks, stepping past them and toward the doors.

“Um,” Harry says, as the sunlight peeks over a cloud, leaks in through the big front windows of the club and highlights Louis’ profile.

“So, have you ever golfed before, Louis?” Zayn asks.

Louis whirls around so he’s walking backward, barely breaking stride. “Course I have. Don’t be stupid.”

~

Harry likes sports facts, is fairly well-versed in them, and he knows that golf was invented in Scotland. He’s not nearly as knowledgeable about geography, but he’s relatively sure that Scotland borders England to the North.

Seeing as Louis now plays soccer, or, excuse him, ‘football’, across the pond, Harry had assumed he’d have taken the time to play golf in the land of its origin. He’d been wrong.

When they arrive at the first tee box, Louis is quick to pull his bag off the cart and set up his tee and ball.

Then, with a frown, he turns to Harry who’s surveying the fairway. “So, I’m supposed to start with one of these big ones?”

Louis selects a 9 iron which is probably not his best choice, but Harry does not protest because, as they say, one man’s 3 iron is another man’s 5 iron.

(The do not say, one man’s 9 iron is another man’s driver, but Harry figures it’s almost, sort of, close enough.)

Louis misses the ball three times before finally smacking high and far, _far_ left of where he needs to be aiming. He looks proud of himself and Harry definitely still wants to sleep with him and marry him and have his babies, so he says, “Good shot.”

At the comment, Louis’ smile fades into a glower. “I know I fucking suck, Styles. No need to rub it in.”

Harry’s swing is on point and the ball soars far and straight and perfect. He grins as he watches it, a little relieved because sometimes it takes him a few holes before his body and mind stop treating the club like a bat.

Both Zayn and his clubs are still in the cart. Louis stalks over to him and pulls his phone out of his hands, glancing down down at the screen before shoving it into his own pocket.

“Sports reporting, Zayn? What’s gotten into you? Liam’s chances aren’t going to improve with your worrying. Get off your phone and out of the cart. Spend some time with your friend who you haven’t seen in eighteen goddamned months. I did not fly over here in the middle of training to spend a day with you glued to your phone panicking over something you can’t control.”

Louis’ got one hand on his hip, while the other gesticulates wildly and nonsensically. Harry’s seen him like this before, but always tiny and sweaty and on his television screen, an ocean away from Harry as he shouts at whatever ref or player has upset him.

Zayn crosses his arms. “Wait. You thought I was actually going to _play_?”

Harry walks up to them. “You are, though! You paid and brought your clubs and everything.”

Zayn looks over his shoulder at the clubs still in the back end of the cart. “Those are Niall’s. They probably don’t even fit me.”

As Harry tries to process the absurdity of the statement and its implications, Louis shrugs and hops into the cart. “Well, you’re not getting your phone back. Come along, Harold.”

Louis’ game does not improve. As they approach the first green, Louis swears he was a putt-putt champion in high school, but, as he overshoots the hole by several feet, Harry is hard pressed to believe him.

Harry’s playing better than average, which is what he’d hoped for, but instead of being impressed, Louis becomes agitated, cussing Harry out at the second hole and kicking his ball across the short grass after Harry chips it within feet of the flag.  

Louis plays so poorly that they are passed by a group of well dressed young women and a foursome of stout elderly men. In fact, they’re forced to head in after hole four in order to be on time for their lunch reservations.

~

By Harry’s calculations the optimal seating arrangement would be Louis beside Zayn and across from Harry, near, but not facing, a southerly window, so that all Louis sees is Harry, bathed in clear, indirect sunlight.

However, because of their VIP status and crowd of customers in town for the big game tonight, they’re seated in a dimly lit booth and Louis crawls in beside Harry, patting his leg and saying, “Winner buys.”

Harry grins at him. “We didn’t finish. You could’ve still pulled out a victory. You were improving.”

“Don’t lie to him,” Zayn murmurs gliding in across from them. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Frankly, I’m offended,” Louis says, opening up his menu.

Zayn folds his hands on top of the table. “So you two remember each other, then?”

Harry flushes and looks down into his own menu. He doesn’t just _remember_ Louis. He knows him; they’re friends.

“We’ve been on that group text together for the last four years. And Harry’s been snapchatting me his breakfast every morning for the last six months.” He turns to Harry, who’s looked to watch him talk. He likes how expressive Louis’ face is; even his eyes move as he speaks. “Speaking of which, Harry. You’re getting lazy. Need to vary things up a bit. Men like that.”

Harry freezes. For last couple of weeks, he’s been sending Louis pictures of himself 'eating' a banana each morning. Louis’ replies have been so bland and off topic that Harry was certain he was missing the innuendo. Or purposefully ignoring it.

Perhaps not.

“You told me you deleted snapchat, Harry,” Zayn mutters, taking a sip of water.

Harry had blocked Zayn on snapchat after he’d sent a selfie ten minutes before Harry was supposed to take the mound, his perfect cheekbones distracting Harry’s mind and dick to a devastating degree.

(Louis has never texted or snapped him before a game. Because he’s polite and takes the time to keep track of Harry’s schedule, which, now that Harry thinks about it, is maybe an overly kind thing to do.)

They’re halfway through the meal, having just finished a vigorous and confusing debate over whether or not Niall was a traitor to his Irish heritage commentating on American football instead of European, when Louis says, “So, Harry, will your girlfriend be joining us for the game?”

The words fall out of Louis’ mouth casually, more casually than Harry has ever said anything in his whole life, but his shoulders are tense and he’s not looking at Harry for the first time in, well, almost all day.

Slowly, Harry replies, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Harry has never actually had a girlfriend, so he has literally no idea what Louis is talking about. He’s certainly never texted or snapchatted Louis anything about a girlfriend. Or liking girls. Or liking anyone aside from Louis (and Zayn’s unnaturally beautiful face).

“I mean that country singer with the hair and the guitar, the one you took on a date to Central Park,” Louis clarifies.

Zayn snorts out a laugh and both Louis and Harry look at him. Zayn shrugs and says, “You looked like you were having a hell of time with her.”

“Taylor is a nice girl. Good songwriter. We’re not dating.” Harry sips his water. They’re friends. Sort of. And, after all the shit he took in the locker room last month, that’s all he has to say about it ever again.

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “What about Cara?” Louis sits up straighter and Harry can’t tell if Zayn’s trying to help Harry get laid or not.

“Cara? Is she that model? The one who was on the cover of the last swimsuit edition of SI? You’re seeing _her_? Jesus, Harry!”

Harry is not seeing her. Well, sometimes Harry wants to see a show on Broadway and there are less questions if he goes with a beautiful woman. Anyway, he reasons, “Cara’s fun. She my friend. But we’re definitely not together. And she’s not really into football anyway.”

“Football,” Louis mimicks. “You Americans are so weird.”

That startles a laugh out of Harry. Louis turns to meet Harry’s eyes and his face falls. Harry wonders if he’s remembering the same moment as Harry.

Louis is American, too, and the first time they met, he’d sworn to Harry that he wasn’t going to let living in Europe change him. He’d pinky promised Harry that he wouldn’t ever call ‘soccer’ ‘football.’

They’d both been drunk, though, and things change, obviously.

“So it’ll just be the three of us?” Louis asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “I begged and bartered and Liam managed to get me a seat beside his mum and sisters in the family section.”

Louis plucks a tomato out of Zayn’s salad and Zayn sighs. Harry wishes Louis had taken his tomato. He has plenty and Louis would be welcome to as many as he’d like.

“What’d you have to barter?” Louis asks. “A blow job every morning for the rest of all eternity?”

Harry takes a bite of his fish. He’s not sure what exactly the nature the nature of Liam and Zayn’s relationship is or whether it involves blow jobs.

Zayn smirks and waggles his eyebrows. It’s funny because it’s a look that would smoulder on Louis (Harry has imagined it doing so many times), but it makes Zayn look young, sweet. “I guess I just know what Liam likes,” he says.

“So it’ll just be me and Harry?” Louis asks.

And Harry realizes that he’s right. Well, it’ll be just the two of them, and the other 68,000 people who’ll be there and, also, the hundred million tuned in on their television screens.

But, mostly, it’ll be just him and Louis, which is exactly the optimal number of people for Harry to pull out a win.

He feels like he’s halfway there already when Louis insists on picking up the check.

~

 

**_Five Years Ago_ **

 

_Louis- Harry’s discovered that this is the boy’s name- has come into the bathroom prepared with a flask tucked into back pocket. They’ve been passing it back and forth, matching each other swig for swig._

_They’re mostly finished and now having difficulty keeping their laughter at a reasonable level. Harry’s developed the hiccups and every time he gasps one out, Louis insults him for being a sloppy drunk. Which doesn’t help because it inevitably sends him into another fit of breathless giggles._

_He’s finally quieting himself down when he notices that  Louis’ lips are wet with whiskey. He wants to lick it off. So he does. Instead of taking the flask which Louis is holding out to him, Harry leans over and presses their lips together._

_Louis reaches up to grasp Harry’s hair, dropping the flask into Harry’s lap, where it spills out onto his thigh._

_The kiss deepens and Harry’s not sure if he’s responsible or Louis. Louis lets out a little whine and crawls on top of him, pushing his shoulders back against the cabinet doors with a thud. One of his hands, finds its way to the front of Harry’s pants and he begins to fiddle with Harry’s fly._

_Harry turns his head, breaking the kiss, and bats Louis’ hand away. Into Louis’ ear, he rasps, “I’m not that kind of boy.”_

_Louis leans back and meets Harry’s eyes. He’s frowning. “I didn’t peg you as someone in denial.”_

_Harry shakes his head. “No, yeah. I know I like, um...” He reaches around and squeezes Louis’ ass to demonstrate._

_Louis’ frown deepens. “Then, why not?”_

_Harry laughs at the questions and Louis’ lip juts out. “You have to take me on a date before you can get into my pants.”_

_Louis leans forward and kisses each of Harry’s cheeks and then his mouth, chastely. “I gave you my whiskey and made you laugh,” he reasons._

_He had, which is exactly why Harry wants to get at least the promise of a date out of him._

_“I need a full meal.” Harry’s never actually been on a date before, not with a boy he likes. But dinner sounds nice and, “Also, red wine and ideally fireworks.”_

_Louis eyebrows raise. “That’s a tall order, sweetheart.”_

_Harry waggles his eyebrows and wriggles his hips so that Louis will be reminded of his definitely larger than average hard-on. “You know you want to.”_

_Louis pouts again. “I do, but I’m leaving town tomorrow. Maybe for good.”_

_Harry’s heart drops into his stomach. “What? Why?”_

_Louis takes a shaky breath. “I think I’m going to sign with a club in England.”_

_“What?” Despite his wiry frame, Harry really hadn’t pegged him as an athlete._

_“Like, to play football?” Louis takes Harry’s face between his hands and pats his cheeks._

_“Football?” No way in hell is Louis big enough to play football._

_“Soccer, I mean,” Louis amends with another harder pat (slap)._

_“Oh!” Harry says, surprised. He sometimes forgets that, like, people play that for money._

_“Yeah,” Louis says, leaning in to kiss him again. “So it’s now or never, baby.”_

_Harry kisses him back, but he’s sort of lost the mood and is now swimming in a sea of disappointment. Louis is the first boy Harry’s ever felt a real connection with and he’s leaving to live on another continent tomorrow._

_That fucking sucks. When Louis pulls out of the kiss, Harry picks up the flask and drains what little is left in it._

_Wiping away the little bit that dribbles down his chin. “Why are you calling it ‘football’ anyway? Don’t let them change you!?” For some reason, even though Harry has just met him, it seems vitally important that Louis not let the people far away, across the ocean make him into someone else, someone who won’t remember or like American-as-apple-pie starting pitcher Harry Styles._

~

 

**Present Day**

 

As soon as he and Louis pull up to the valet in Harry’s beautiful new deep blue 1969 GTO, Harry sees a dozen people he recognizes. At least half of them will recognize him as well and expect a ‘hello.’ So much for him and Louis enjoying a private-ish date.

Ed Sheeran bounds over to them and pulls Harry into a tight hug. Despite how close they’ve been the last couple seasons as pitcher and catcher, Harry hasn’t talked to him in a few of weeks.

“Big man,” he says with a grin. “Good to see you out here for the home team. Who’ve you brought with you and why’s he rooting for the enemy?”

Louis is wearing the wrong jersey, much to Harry’s dismay. He’d insisted he looked better in blue than red, and Liam’s probably going to kill him for it, especially if they lose.

Louis says, “I’m a very famous athlete. Who are you?”

Ed laughs and claps him on the shoulder, looking him up and down. “A runner?” he guesses.

“You’re a runner?” Louis returns, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Ed’s thick frame. Harry knows that Louis knows exactly who Ed is. They’ve had at least two whole conversations about whether or not his hair is more red or orange.

“No, I’m a baseball player. I thought you might be a runner.” Ed laughs through the confusion and Harry’s suddenly glad they’ve run into him. He’s probably Harry’s best friend on the team.

“I hate running,” Louis says. Harry knows it’s true, but he also knows that Louis runs more in a week than he or Ed do in a month.

It does wonders for his ass. Not that Harry’s looking… all the time.

In front of them, Harry sees Nick Grimshaw, his pitching nemesis and very close secret friend. He waves and Nick blows him a kiss. He’s with his model not-girlfriend Daisy Lowe and they’re heading toward the bar.

“Where are you sitting?” Ed asks, apparently having given up on discovering Louis’ identity. Harry hands over his ticket and Ed reads it and then beams back at him.

“Same box as me and Ellie, just a few seats over. Perfect,” he says.

~

It does turn out closer to perfect than Harry had hoped. Ellie is from the UK and a huge fan of Louis and vice versa. They’ve apparently even met before at a movie premier and, in the spirit of catching up, order huge lime green cocktails together.

Harry eyes Louis drink enviously and considers asking for a sip as he swallows down his own bitter, piss-infused microbrew.

At the start of the game, Harry sees Niall in the press box several suites over and waves at him. He throws Harry an eyebrow waggle and two thumbs up.

He’s the only person who knows how close Louis and Harry have become over texts through the years and he’s been talking about Harry’s chances with Louis since they’d found he was flying in for the big game.

He seems to think this might be the beginning of their forever. Harry’s not so optimistic as that-they still live an ocean apart- but he’s hopeful.

Louis must see Niall, too, because he shouts, perhaps a little too loudly, “Niall Horan you’re a disgrace to your country for calling this football.”

Niall’s turned back to his colleagues and misses it, but Harry laughs and elbows Louis in the side. “You’re the disgrace to your country, Tomlinson,” he chides.

Louis reaches out a finger and sticks it in one of Harry’s dimples. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m not sure, like, what are they even doing with this coin toss business?” Ellie asks. “Seems sort of pointless to me. Like couldn’t they determine who gets the ball first by statistics or something?”

Louis leans over Harry to look at her, dropping his jaw in shock before biting back, “Somethings have to be left up to fate, Ellie.”

Harry nods in agreement. “It’s like, _tradition_.”

“Thank you, Harold,” Louis says reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. “That’s right. It’s tradition.”

~

Taylor plays the halftime show and she’s perfect- gorgeous and on pitch and backed by so many glittery lights.

Louis is not impressed, though, and spends most of the show making snide comments about her (apparently flat and mousy) hair.

Harry keeps telling him to stop, to _hush_ , but the words come out between bursts of poorly muffled laughter. Harry likes Taylor, _he truly does,_ but Louis is so damn funny.

Their box is quiet for the performance and so Louis murmurs each remark directly into Harry’s ear. This means that they’re sitting very, _very_ close together, so close that they’re probably getting _looks,_ but Harry’s not going to worry about it; Louis’ certainly not.

As Taylor finishes, fireworks light up the sky, and Louis leans over again and whispers, this time letting his mouth touch Harry's skin. “Is this what you had in mind when you asked for fireworks?”

The brush of his lips sends a shiver down Harry’s spine and straight to his groin. He swallows and tries to process what Louis’ said.

A full meal, red wine, and fireworks. A real date. That’s what Harry’d said would woo him, all those years back.

A bright white circle appears in the sky followed by a boom. Then, it dazzles slowly out of sight. He turns to Louis and nods. This is exactly what he’d had in mind.

~

Harry sprawls out on the couch beside Niall, dizzy and happy and madly in love. The club is so dark that the other man appears to be merely a silhouette, until he turns, throws an arm across the back of the couch and grins at Harry.

Niall’s the smallest of the men Harry regularly spends time with (though hopefully that’s about to change), yet he _always_ finds a way to take up the most space.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

Harry thinks about correcting him. Louis isn’t his boyfriend, not yet, but, Harry truly believes that it’s only a matter of time. So, instead, he answers, “At the bar, getting us drinks.”

Niall lifts his beer and winks. “Cheers.”

Harry reaches out and pats Niall’s leg. Harry suspects that Niall is secretly a leprechaun and as such, _lucky_ to touch. He needs all the luck he can get tonight.

While he’s thinking about it, he reaches back up to press a finger to the airplane charm still hanging round his neck, cooling the bare skin of his chest where he’s left his top three buttons undone.

Niall leans in closer and Harry meets his glassy gaze with a giggle. “You know,” Niall whisper-shouts. “I never told you this before, but I added you to that group text because I thought you and Tommo would hit it off. You romantic assholes are perfect for each other.”

“Now, Niall, gonna need you to lay off,” Louis calls, loud even with the thrumming bass booming over the speakers.

“Harry’s not an asshole,” he adds, moving to perch on the edge of the couch, his arm and thigh pressing up against Harry’s own.

He hands Harry a glass of red wine, which Harry immediate raises to lips for a sip. He’s not really a fan of red wine, he’s learned over the years, but like.

It’s exactly what he’d asked for. As he lowers his glass, he winks at Louis who beams in return. Yeah, Harry thinks, he’s definitely being wooed.

“Jesus, you two are disgusting,” Niall says, shaking his head. He’s smiling though and watching them closely. Harry thinks he likes it, thinks he might be a tad bit proud of himself for like hooking them up or whatever.

Harry’s never told him about that party and the bathroom where they first met. He’s never told anyone about that bathroom.

“Who’s buying me a drink?” Liam shouts, appearing in front of them out of thin air. He soaking wet and Harry has no idea if it’s beer or champagne or sweat and he’s not eager to get close enough to find out.

The choice is made for him, though, when Liam tugs him off the couch and pulls him into a hug. “Thank you so much for volunteering, Harry. I promise to pay you back when you win the World Series next year.”

Harry is not going to win the World Series next year, not with his current shit show of a General Manager. But he laughs and lets Liam’s definitely champagne soaked arms lift him into the air, all the while forcing himself not to be visibly put out by the way his red wine sloshes down his new silk shirt.

“Put him down, Liam,” Louis says. Liam drops Harry immediately and turns to Louis, grinning even more widely.

“You came, you bastard! You came to see me play! To see me win.” He pulls Louis into a hug that looks bone crushingly tight.  

When he’s released, Louis pinches Liam’s nipple and says, “You’re awesome. You played amazing tonight.”

Liam throws back his head and  calls out, “I AM AWESOME. TOMMO THINKS I’M AWESOME!”

Harry laughs. Liam may be more excited about winning Louis’ approval than he is about winning the Superbowl and, really, as Louis grins, grabs Harry’s hand and pulls him back down onto the sofa, Harry thinks he can’t blame him.

~

Zayn finds them a few minutes later. He’s not nearly as drunk as Liam, but he looks happier than Harry’s seen him in months.

The playoffs are so stressful, he thinks.

As soon as Liam sees Zayn, he wraps an arm around him and presents him to the group. “This is my Zayn,” he says, as though they don’t all already know each other. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

Zayn laughs and hides his face behind his hand, which Harry thinks is dumb as fuck because he’s a model and people are always telling him how fabulous he looks. But it’s also kind of sweet.

Zayn inclines his head and Harry gets caught up in the movement of his hair for a moment before realizing that he’s gesturing toward a group of broad shouldered men heading toward the club’s exit.

“Got to head to the airport, bring your trophy home to the big city, babe,” Zayn tells Liam.

Liam nods into the side of Zayn's face. “Okay.”

And then they’re off. Louis’ arm which has found it’s way around Harry’s shoulder, tightens. Into Harry’s ear, he whispers, “Two choices. We can get out of here right now, or we can dance first. Whichever you’d like, babe.”

 _Babe,_ Harry thinks. Louis uses the word in texts all the time, but Harry loves hearing it whispered into his ear. The warmth of tone paired with the whisper of breath makes Harry’s head swim.

~

Out on the dancefloor, Harry realizes that he’s had more to drink than he realized. The room- a sea of bodies and flashing lights- whirls round him and he can’t quite steady himself, even pressed close as he is Louis.  

It takes a lot of alcohol to get him drunk these days and he can’t remember the last time he felt this dizzy and loose. He’s glad he’s with Louis, though, because Louis keeps a firm hand on his waist and laughs at his jokes (not at _him,_ like other so-called friends he could name, _Nick Grimshaw_ ).

Louis has positioned himself close to Harry, not quite pressed back to front. He’s got rhythm, which Harry appreciates, especially because he uses it to shake his ass perfectly in time with the beat, occasionally gyrating just far enough to brush softly against Harry’s slowly hardening dick.

Harry’s never heard him talk about clubbing before, or dancing, but it’s clear he likes it and is good at it. Harry supposes it _is_ more of European thing and vows to practice himself for future outings.

He wraps an arm around Louis’ middle pulling them tight together and murmurs in his ear, “You’re good. And a tease.”  

Louis turns back to him, lips brushing his jaw to say, “You like it.”

Harry laughs and the roughness of it surprises him. It seems to startle Louis, too, as he pulls free from Harry’s grip and puts several inches of space between them.

The urge to pull him close again almost overwhelms Harry, but he refrains. He feels a bit better when Louis leans forward and murmurs into his ear, “You’re the tease, love.” _LOVE_. “And we’re in public.”

They _are_ in public, that’s true, and, Harry realizes with a sobering rush, it’s a public filled with journalists and fans trying to photograph famous folks in compromising positions. Like the one Harry’s gone and put them in.

He stumbles backward, increasing the distance that separates them. Whether or not he’s reading rightly what’s happening between them, he’s certain that Louis doesn’t want to be photographed making out with him on a crowded dancefloor.

“Oh, sorry!” But it’s loud in here and Harry thinks his words are probably swallowed up by the noise long before they reach Louis. He reaches out to pat Louis’ shoulder in apology, but then thinks the better of it, dropping his arm.

Louis’ laughing, though, and then, _he’s_ reaching out pat _Harry’s_ shoulder. He pulls them closer.

They’re still not quite close enough to hear each other over the crowd, so Harry has to watch Louis’ lips closely to understand as he says, “Nobody’s watching us, I don’t think. Just, let’s be careful.”

Careful. The word triggers something in Harry’s hazy mind. _The gameplan_. He’d created a plan for this evening, he remembers, a plan to woo Louis. And it’s a very _careful_ plan, as Niall’s rousing pep talk yesterday had included a pointed warning about journalists, the hypocritical shithead.  

He tries to remember the details of said gameplan, but they’re fuzzy. He thinks he’s most of the way through, they’re at least to the Seventh Inning Stretch, and his team’s definitely in the lead. What’s next? he thinks. What’s fucking next?

Louis voice cuts into his thoughts. He’s close again, mouth next to Harry’s ear. “You alright? You look like you might be in pain. Do you need to sit down? Lie down?”

That’s it! He can feel himself grinning as it finally comes to him. “You should go home,” Harry shouts.

Louis pulls away and nods. Then, his face scrunches up as though he’s swallowed something gross, or maybe confusing.

“With me!” Harry adds, triumphantly. “You should go home _with me_!”

That’s the plan! Louis comes back to Harry’s hotel room and they make love all night long using the assorted condoms and lube and sex toys that Harry’s packed for the occasion.

Louis’ shoulders relax and he lets out a harsh breath. Harry feels it wet against his cheek. He’s glad that they’re close again. Hopefully, he thinks, they’ll never be farther from each other than this ever again.

“You’re really drunk, Harry,” Louis murmurs.

Harry pouts. “You’re supposed to sleep with me.” And Harry wasn’t supposed to say that out loud. Not smooth. Not smooth, at all.

Louis smirks or, at least Harry thinks he smirks, the lights are dim and Harry really shouldn’t have had that last drink. “Supposed to? Says who?”

Harry reaches out and clutches Louis’ hand. “You’ve been on the offensive all night. I know you want this.”

Louis shakes his head and now he’s smiling, Harry’s sure of it. “I knew it!” He crows.

“Let’s get you home,” Louis says, pushing open the door.

Harry realizes he's been guiding them toward the exit, pulling Harry through the crowd. Harry’d been so focused on Louis, it hadn’t registered. But Louis’ got his back and they’re going home. _Home_.

As they walk out onto the street, Harry moves up so he’s completely in Louis’ space. There are cameras everywhere, but they’re all chasing after some popstar who exited just before they did.

Against Louis’ cheek, Harry whispers, “First base, second base, third base, HOME! AND HE SCORES!”

Louis reaches up to pat the side of his head. “Don’t count it as a win yet. There’s still a few minutes left in the game.”

Harry squints at him. Even drunk as he is, Harry _knows_ the rules of _baseball_. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you? Have you ever even watched me play?”

Louis reaches into Harry’s shirt and pulls out his airplane pendant. He lifts it to Harry’s lips and Harry kisses it automatically, just as he does every inning before he steps onto the field.

“Sure have, love. Can’t say I’m too interested in the rules, though.”

~

By the time the cab turns round the what should be the final corner bringing Harry’s hotel into view, he’s wiped out. Louis’ so close and smells so wonderful and _looks_ so cozy and Harry doesn’t want to have sex with him so much as he wants to pull him close, burrow into him and sleep forever.

Louis pats Harry’s shoulder, but it turns into more of a stroke, as it moves down toward his elbow and where it rests.

Harry wants to kiss him. “I want to kiss you.”

Louis’ lips are close, not an image on the computer screen, but right here, right in front of him and he _can,_ he _can_ kiss them. But then, as he leans forward, Louis leans back.

“I want to kiss you,too,” he says, head falling back against the seat. “Fuck. I’ve fantasized about it for _years._ But not here, not with you drunk out of your mind in the backseat of a car in view of a goddamn cabdriver.”

Harry pouts at him. It’s not fair that now, when Louis is finally practically in Harry’s lap again, he won’t even give Harry a simple kiss.

Harry knows Louis is trying to smart and _careful_. This is a reckless place to have a second first kiss. But, Harry thinks, panic welling up inside of him, what if they never have another opportunity. It’s been _five years_ since their last.

“You’re coming back with me,” he clarifies. “Then we can kiss.”

Louis nods. “Yes.” He smiles and presses his hand up against Harry’s.

The cab ride lasts longer than it should, Harry knows, because he’d seen the hotel marquee three minutes ago. The streets are packed with cars and people celebrating after the big game creating all kinds of traffic barriers, but Harry suspects that the cabbie is fucking with them. It’s happened to him before.

Too bad neither he nor Louis are sober enough, nor know the city well enough to call bullshit.

Harry’s tempted though. Every moment in the cab is another moment he has to wait to kiss Louis.

Unfortunately, his eyelids are heavy and his chances aren’t looking good.

“Louis?” he says.

“Yes, love?” Harry preens at the pet name, nosing Louis’ shoulder and forgetting what he had been planning to say until Louis prompts him again. “Love?”

“You’ll stay?” he presses. “Until morning? You’ll sleep with me?”

He’s not sure which way he means, whether he’s asking Louis to spend the night in his bed or whether he wants Louis to ravish him. Both, preferably, but he’s not sure Louis knows that.

Louis smiles softly and Harry thinks he might understands after all. “If you think I’ve flown all the way across the ocean only to miss out on the opportunity to make love to you, you’re crazy.”

Harry smiles back and then relaxes and closes his eyes.

~

Harry isn’t quite sure how Louis finds Harry's hotel room or how he manages to drag Harry up to it, but the next thing Harry knows, he is waking up in a darkened room. He's got vague memories of an argument with the front desk clerk over a second keycard and sleepy elevator kisses.

He rolls over to find three water bottles on his bedside table, two empty, one full. He guzzles the third quickly before making his way across the room to the bathroom.

When he climbs back into bed, he wraps himself around Louis’ sleeping form, nuzzling his cheek against the smooth skin of Louis’ peck. He smells like alcohol and expensive cologne and sweat and Harry lets it envelop him as he slips back into sleep.

_~_

 

**_Five Years Ago_ **

 

_“Come on, Harold, follow me,” Louis says, tugging on Harry’s arm. He’s strong and Harry follows him easily because he doesn’t want his shoulder pulled out of the alignment. Even soaked in vodka, his brain remembers that it’s his moneymaker._

_“”m names not Harold,” he protests as Louis drags him past a pair of angry looking chicks, crossing their legs and clutching their crotches._

_“Sorry! We couldn’t figure out how to unlock it. Sorry!” He doesn’t want to them to be upset with him. He and Louis hadn’t gone into the bathroom to have wild sex or anything. He’d needed to pee!_

_“In here,” Louis directs them through a door and into an empty bedroom._

_Later, Harry wakes with Louis’ dick pressed hard against his ass. He grinds back into it and Louis moans, his mouth hot on Harry’s neck._

_Harry’s own dick thickens between his thighs and he presses back again into Louis who begins to cant his hips till they’ve found a rhythm._

_Louis’ breathing sounds ragged, as does Harry’s own, which he tries desperately to quiet._

_The house is silent, now, but for the rustle of sheets, the party having died down some time ago._

_Suddenly, Louis stiffens. “Harry,” he says, voice choked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was sleeping.”_

_Harry rolls over smoothly, managing to keep Louis’ arm wrapped round his waist. “It’s okay,” Harry tells him. “I’m awake. It was hot. Like,” He pauses trying to find the words he’s looking for. He can still feel the alcohol in him, so he knows it must not too much later than when they’d crawled into bed._

_Louis leans in and kisses him. It’s soft. Too soft. Chaste. And Harry tries to chase after it, but Louis turns his head to the side._

_“What?” he says. He must be asking Harry, but he directs his words to the ceiling._

_“I want you,” Harry tells him, because he does. Earlier, he’d stopped them, yes. He remembers that, remembers hoping that Louis would ask him on a date and then discovering that that would never be possible._

_But Louis is beautiful and hot and hard and_ right here _and Harry_ does _want him, after all. It might be his only chance._

_“I thought you wanted a date, or maybe a boyfriend,” Louis chides, turning back to him and running a hand through his hair._

_Harry closes his eyes and nuzzles into the touch. What Louis’ saying sounds nice, but. “I want_ you _,” Harry corrects. “However I can have you.”_

_Louis moves in close so that their noses touch. “Too bad,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you for a one night stand.”_

_Harry’s eyes fly open and he tries to pull away, but Louis holds him still. Harry wants to ask why, but he can’t find the words, so he chews his lip and waits for Louis to explain._

_“You’re boyfriend material, Harold. You need wooing and time and teaching.”_

_Harry slides a thigh between Louis’ legs. “I can be good. I know what I’m doing,” he lies._

_“Yeah, right,” Louis says._

_Harry pouts at him, bitter that he’s so transparent._

_Louis shakes his head. “We’re not going to have sex tonight.” His tone is firm and Harry knows he means it._

_Harry sighs. He hopes it’s not because Louis’ put off by his inexperience. That bodes poorly for their future._

_Except that they have no future. Louis is about to move far,_ far _away and Harry will_ never _have sex with him, never be wooed by him. Shit, he’ll probably never even see him again._

_He reaches out and runs a finger down Louis’ cheek, suddenly very, very sad. “I’m going to miss you when you leave for Europe.”_

_“No you’re not. You don’t even know me.” The words are biting, but Louis’ tone is not. His fingers rub slow, wide circles across Harry’s back. The weight and rhythm is comforting and almost familiar._

_Louis’ right; Harry does know very little about him. And yet Harry feels an easy and intimate connection to him. “I will, though! I will know you. Like, we have the same friends. It’s fate, isn’t it?”_

_Louis breaths out through his nose and Harry feels it against his own cheek. “Sure is,” Louis agrees. “Destiny.”_

_Harry falls asleep almost immediately after that. When he wakes, Louis is gone, without a goodbye. Fighting the pain building behind his eyes, Harry searches the room for a note. Then, he scrolls through his phone hoping for a recently added a contact or a text sent to an unknown number._

_But Louis’ left nothing. He really has left their impending relationship up to fate._

_Harry sits back on the bed. His headache is now out in full force and he expects disappointment to hit, hard and fast._

_It doesn’t, though. He’s glad he’s met Louis and, like, hopeful._

_He feels like he had eighteen months ago when he’d first been approached by someone from the majors, like he’s been offered the most exciting and frightening challenge of his life._

~

 

**Present Day**

 

When Harry wakes a second time, his eyelids feel heavy, but not nearly as heavy as his limbs. Experimentally, he tries to lift his arm an inch or two. It’s sticky, he notes, too hot from where it had lain pressed against Louis’ bare chest.

Suddenly, Harry finds the strength to open both his eyes to see that, yes, Louis’ bare chest is still right there, beside him in bed.

Relief floods through him. He hadn’t been in any state to worry about it last night, but this morning could easily have begun just like the one following the last night he’d spent in Louis’ arms- hungover and alone.

Feeling bold and happy, he drops a kiss to Louis’ bare shoulder before heading to the bathroom for a piss. Once he’s finished, he throws back another glass of water and, shooting a hopeful glance at Louis’ sleeping form, decides to brush his teeth.

When he crawls back into bed, Louis rolls over to face him. His eyes are closed and his breathing is even and Harry assumes he’s still asleep until his hand reaches across the inches between them and wraps around Harry’s wrist.

“Harry Styles?” Louis asks.

The way he says it, sleepy and confused and maybe even slightly amazed, reminds Harry of how his fans sometimes say it, when they really aren’t sure it’s him in front of them.

“The one and only,” he replies. “Would you like me to sign your arm?”

Louis’ eyes flicker open. They’re so blue, Harry thinks. “Yeah, I would,” Louis agrees, but the words come slowly and Harry wonders if he’s talking in his sleep. He’s confessed to doing so before.

Harry pulls Louis arm close and then spatters it with soft, quick kisses. When he looks up, Louis’ eyes have closed again. Harry leans down and this time lets his teeth sink into Louis’ skin.

Louis’ eyes fly open, eyebrows shooting up, as he pulls his arm loose from Harry’s grip. “Ouch, you shit.”

He rubs the spot Harry’s bitten into and pouts. He’s clearly awake, though, which was Harry’s intent.

“You fucker. Like, playful biting, alright. I’m kind of into that. But I have very sensitive skin, so-”

Harry cuts him off with a kiss. Louis melts into it immediately, his hands sliding over the sheets, up Harry’s chest and into Harry’s hair.

His lips are firmer than Harry expects and more insistent. His urgency catches Harry off guard. They’ve only just woken up. Still, his tongue plunges into Harry’s mouth and finds Harry’s own, testing-teasing- _pushing_. It’s not the slow, leisurely tasting Harry had anticipated.  

Harry eagerly allows Louis to take the lead, delighted by his enthusiasm. As Louis’ hands roam Harry’s sides and back, Harry wonders, idly, if Louis is always this excitable in the morning.

It’s an enticing thought because Harry almost always wakes up _in the mood_. He’d love to have a partner who’s also a, like, morning (sex) person.

Not that Harry feels confident that they’ll be partners or anything. He hopes so. That’s definitely his long-term strategy. But his nerves always screw with him. He’s anything but clutch. Everyone says he’d make a terrible closer. 

Harry’s own hands move of their own accord, clutching at Louis’ shoulders, slipping down his back and coming to rest on Louis’ ass. Harry knows a thing or two about beautiful asses. You don’t spend your whole life in men’s locker rooms without seeing and slapping a few (hundred) fabulous asses. But Louis’ is, without a doubt, the firmest, fullest, most fantastic ass Harry has ever had the pleasure of holding onto.

“Fuck,” he groans, arching forward to press his dick more tightly against Louis’ thigh.

“You okay, babe?” Louis murmurs, pulling away. His hands find their way up to Harry’s face and frame it. He stills as he looks into Harry’s eyes, so serious, and Harry groans because _does not_ have the patience for a heart to heart.

He cants his hips again, so that Louis can feel exactly how ‘okay’ he is.

“Come on,” Harry begs.

Louis kisses Harry’s jaw and says, “You really don’t want to wait till we’re all sorted. You want to do this, now?”

Harry’s not sure what he means. He wasn’t aware that they were sorting anything. Or, at least, making love to Louis, leaving him aching and spent and awed by Harry’s beauty and sexual prowess, was actually part of Harry’s plan to sort things out, to get Louis to promise to never leave him again.

“Yeah,” Harry says, finally. “I’ve waited a long time for this and, like, _you’re here_.” These last two words come out a sort of breathless whine and Harry realizes again how absolutely amazing it is that Louis is _finally_ finally here in his bed, hard and naked for him.  

Louis pulls them more tightly together and noses Harry’s neck gently before opening his mouth in series of hard, wet kisses. Sensation sizzles through Harry, his nerve ends lighting on fire. His dick twitches expectantly.

Louis must feel it because he says, “Like that, do you?”

Harry answers with another groan because Louis has punctuated the question by cupping Harry’s dick and squeezing it playfully.

Harry meets Louis’ eyes. His pupils are blown and Harry knows that he’s as wrapped up in the moment as Harry is.  

“Can I like... ?” Harry lets the question hang. It’s the first time they’ve been together, really, and he’s not sure how fast Louis wants to move.

For all that they’ve shared about other aspects of their lives, sex has never come up. Harry’s imagined Louis keening, back arched, lashes fluttering prettily, as Harry strokes him, mostly dry and a little rough. And he’s imagined the high pitched noises Louis might make as Harry’s tongue danced from his balls to his hole and back again. He’s imagined Louis might be so desperate for him after all this time, that he wants to tie Harry’s arms to the bedpost and pin down his legs with the weight of his body while he sucks Harry off.

Harry’s _imagined_ these things, but he does not know what Louis really likes or wants.

He looks into Louis’ eyes, questioning. Louis meets his gaze, mouth open, seeming equally uncertain.

He takes in a ragged breath and reaches round to settle one of Harry’s hands against his ass. “Yeah, _fuck me_ ,” he says.  

Harry gasps and grips Louis harder than he means to. He’d been imagining pulling them off together or perhaps sucking Louis until he’s a blissful, writhing mess.

Harry doesn’t allow himself to be fucked very often and he fucks even less. In fact, he thinks, swallowing nervously, he can count on one hand the number of men he’s been inside. He wants Louis, sure, but he also wants to take his time with Louis, wants things to be good, _perfect._

But before he can figure out how to communicate this, Louis pants are sliding down his hips, and Harry can feel the heat of his naked cock through the thin fabric of his own boxers.

“Louis,” Harry begins, running a hand down the bare skin of Louis’ thigh, relishing the tickle of the fine hair under his fingertips.

“Sometimes,” Louis murmurs, not letting Harry finish his thought. “I fuck myself on my fingers and imagine that it’s your cock.”

Harry whines because he can see it now. Louis flushed and out of breath, like he is in his interviews after games, eyes closed as he presses deep inside himself moaning Harry’s name.  

“Yeah,” Harry hears himself say. “I want to see.”

It’s true. In fact, he can’t think of anything he’d rather see, but he’d meant to slow things down. Part of the master plan is to leave Louis wanting more, to have him anticipating a next time so expectantly that he books another plane ticket to see Harry before he even leaves Harry’s hotel room.

But Louis’ already pulling back and spreading his legs. Harry watches, helplessly as his finger circles his hole. He slips in just the tip.

“Harry?” Louis’ voice is barely a rasp.

Reluctantly, Harry lets his eyes move up to Louis’ face.

“Do you have any lube?”

Harry almost falls off the bed in his haste to grab it. Of course, he has lube. He has lots of lube. He’s been planning for them to, like, _do sex things_ ; he’s prepared. He pulls open his duffle bag and riffles through it. It takes him a moment before he finds the little the baggie he’d stuffed full of lube and condoms.

He lifts it and, as he takes in just how many condoms he’s put inside he, he flushes with embarrassment. There’s no way anyone could use _that many_ condoms in a weekend. What was he thinking.

Thankfully, Louis doesn’t notice. He’s moved so that he’s leaning back against the headboard, completely preoccupied with teasing his hole and plucking at his nipples which Harry sees are now hard and swollen. Harry leans down, noses Louis’ hand away, and takes the little nub closest to him into his mouth and sucks.

Louis keens and clutches at the top of Harry’s knee, the dull edge of his nails biting into Harry’s flesh as he continues to hold Louis tight in his mouth.

Harry pulls away, but his eyes remain glued to the shiny pink tip, more distended than it had been even a moment ago.

Louis draws a shaky breath and slouches down, lifting his hips and drawing Harry’s attention back to his hole.

Harry holds the little tube of lube out to him with a smile. “It’s not like, fancy, or anything,” he apologizes.

Harry has fancy lube. He’s tried all different kinds, but when he was hastily throwing things into his duffle two nights ago, this tube was the best he could find. Also, like, different people have different preferences and what if Louis didn’t like the tingly kind or something? _Embarrassing_.

Louis takes it from him without comment, allowing their hands to brush as he does so.

Harry watches as he unscrews the cap, noting that Louis’ fingers are trembling slightly. He’s nervous, as nervous as Harry feels, certainly, and Harry wants to calm him, to help. He says, “I can do it, if you’d like.”

Louis meets Harry’s gaze, chin set, eyes glinting with determination. “I would like to do it myself.” His voice is not so hard as his expression and the dollop of lube he presses out slides off his fingers and onto the sheets.

He pouts dramatically and goes after the glob with a soft laugh.  “Come here, you,” he says to it.

His fringe is sweaty and stuck to his forehead and Harry really, _really_ wishes that they lived on the same continent, in the same city. He wishes tonight was the first night of an every night forever for them.

“Are you watching?” Louis asks, bringing Harry out of his reverie and drawing his gaze to where two of Louis fingers slide easily into his hole.

Harry hears his own breath catch and he whispers. “Is it tight, Louis? How does it feel?”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Louis responds, fingers slipping in deeper and twisting. He repeats the motion and this time, he cries out, “ _Fuck._ ”

Harry looks up to see that Louis’ completely absorbed in the sensation, mouth open, eyes closed, brows drawn together.

Feeling left out, Harry reaches out and lets his own fingers circle Louis’ hole, brushing up against Louis’ own where they’re buried inside him.

“Let me,” he murmurs, or tries to, at least. His voice is rough enough that he doubts Louis understands the words. Yet Louis must perceive Harry’s meaning as his fingers slip out, making space for Harry’s.

Louis clenches around him, a wet, smooth heat, and Harry gasps.  It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Harry’s done this before, to himself, of course, but also to other people and he’s enjoyed it. He remembers the first time, with a friend of a friend, handsome, sweet-eyed, and discreet. He remembers the anticipation of what was to come, the power he felt seeing someone so completely helpless at his touch, and, finally, the release of his orgasm.

Louis had texted him later that evening, and Harry remembers that, too, in vivid detail, his grinning face smooshed up against the face of his dog, just a puppy at the time. When Harry’d seen it on his cab ride home, he’d experienced a rush of a disappointment and the thought that perhaps he should have waited for his and Louis’ _someday_.

After that, every experience, no matter how mindblowing the sex or how enjoyable the company, had been hold-over or, like, practice for the big game. For Louis. For right now.

He twists his finger and Louis breath stutters and his eyes, which had been wide, fixed on Harry’s face, flutter shut.  

“Good? Am I good?” Harry asks. He thinks he must be doing fine, but he wants confirmation, wants to know that the pleasure writ plain across Louis’ features is being registered, that Louis knows where he is and who he’s with. That this means something to Louis, too.

“Yeah, fuck,” Louis replies. “Want you to fuck me. _Now_.”

Harry removes his fingers and leans down to press a soft kiss to his hole. _I’ll be right back_ , he thinks, reaching for the condoms on the bed beside him.

He realizes that he’s been so caught up in _Louis_ that he hasn’t even stripped off his own boxers. Louis seems to realizes this too because he whines, “What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you already ready? Come on.”

Harry smirks at him. “You seem to be lacking in patience and hard work. No wonder you haven’t won a title for your team.”

Louis’ brows shoot up in challenge. Despite what Harry’s just said, they both know that Louis has more titles to his name than Harry does. “My secret is practice, young Harold, which apparently is something you need a whole lot more of.”

Harry laughs, ripping open the condom packet and pulling on the rubber so easily that the _tearpluckslide_ of it is one smooth motion. He waggles his own eyebrows. “Oh, I have plenty of practice.”

Louis’ face darkens and Harry’s heart stutters with shame. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t have brought up his previous sexual conquests, not at this moment, not with this man, not if he wants this to last. God, he’s having a hell of a time sticking to the gameplan.

Before he can backtrack, Louis says, “Have you, then, like, done this a lot?”

Worry lines crease his brow and Harry wants to smooth them away, but he doesn’t know how. He refuses to be anything but completely honest with Louis.

He leans forward, a hand between Louis’ spread legs, and presses a kiss against Louis’ frown. As he sits back he says, “A few times.”

Louis licks his lips and looks up at the ceiling. “That’s good.”

This is not what Harry had expected him to say. He’s a possessive bastard most of the time. He’s (mostly jokingly) cussed out Harry for spending time with his friends in New York instead of sitting home on Louis’ nights off and texting him nonstop.

But his shoulders sag as he speaks and he seems genuinely relieved that Harry hasn’t saved himself for Louis or some romantic shit like that.

“Not a lot,” Harry adds, wanting to be clear.

Louis nods. “Just, like,” he pauses, licking his lips again. “I’m glad you’re not clueless.”

He’s silent for a moment, but Harry thinks there’s more he wants to say, so keeps still and watches him.

“I’ve never done it before, like with someone else, so it’s good that one of us will know how it’s supposed to go.” He smiles, but it’s too bright, strained.

And Harry can’t believe what he’s just heard. Literally _cannot_ believe it. “What? You’ve _never?_ But you're so... You seem so confident and, like...” Harry trails off, not able to mentally match Louis' bravada with his apparent lack of experience. 

Louis shakes his head, shifts. “Never trusted anyone enough. To keep the secret, or, like, be careful with me, you know. Can’t be limping on the pitch.”

Harry takes a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed with a tenderness he’s never, _ever_ felt before. “I’ll be careful. I swear, I’ll be careful.”

At this Louis smiles, a real smile this time, and reaches out to squeeze Harry’s cock which has softened slightly during their exchange. “You’d better, sweetheart. If you ever want to do this again.”  

A wave of pleasure zips up his spine and he chokes out a soft, “I want to.”

Louis meets Harry’s eyes and they stare at each other for a long moment. The space between them is filled with promise and Harry doesn’t know how, but they’re going to make this work. They have to.

Louis nods, an upward jerk of his chin, and says, “Well? What are you waiting for then?”

Harry takes in a quick breath and gives himself a few quick tugs so that he’s fully hard again. He moves to kneel between Louis’ legs, carefully lowering himself and lining himself up.

Meanwhile, Louis’ forefinger is tracing shapes on Harry’s bicep. As he begins to push in, Louis’ whole hand wraps round his arm, gripping hard and Harry looks up, wanting to meet his eyes but finding them closed.

Louis’ mouth is open, though, and his brow is creased, whether in pleasure or pain, Harry’s not sure.

After a moment, Louis’ eyes blink open. “Harry?” His voice is choked and Harry’s sure he’s hurting Louis. He’s too big. Louis is too inexperienced. They’re not well enough rested and hydrated. This was a terrible idea. Not part of the plan.

Harry can feel the panic welling up inside him and, _shit,_ he’s probably not going to be able to stay hard anymore anyway.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I want this to be good for you.”

Louis smiles. It’s strained, but genuine. “I know, love. You’re not. Just, like, _move._ ”

Harry shakes his head. “I _am_.”

Louis cants his hips and, with a grunt, takes Harry a little deeper. “Love, do you want to make this good for me or what?”

The way he says it, demanding and sweet at the same time, has Harry’s pulse picking up again. Harry nods. “I do,” he says. Because he really, _really_ does.

Louis’ chin juts out, his eyes close, and he moves his hips again. On a caught breath, he rasps, “Then you had better find my sweet spot with your dick.”

After that, it doesn’t take long to get into a rhythm that sets Louis writhing. Harry is very determined and Louis’ hip action is top notch.

As Louis’ murmurs of _yeah_ and _oh love_ and _right yeah yes_ become increasingly fevered, Harry allows himself to get a little lost in the feeling of being surrounded by Louis. It’s everything he’s dreamed of, his smell, his voice, his arms hot around Harry’s shoulders, his ass so, _so_ tight.

Harry feels his orgasm building quickly, too quickly, and he tries to calm his breathing and slow his movements to stave it off. He’s so caught up in his attempt to hold back that he almost misses Louis’ desperate plea, “ _Harry,_ can you, like, … Can you get me off?”

“Yeah,” Harry tells him, and he’s already transferring his weight so that can reach an arm between them. He tugs hard and fast and as evenly as possible because that’s what he likes himself. The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t matter. Within moments, Louis is arching up, calling out nonsense, and shooting off, over Harry’s fist.

Louis’ moans washes over Harry and his ass tightens around him pulling Harry forward toward his own orgasm, so that a series of hard thrusts later he’s spilling into the condom, out breath and collapsing onto Louis’ chest.  

When his breathing slows and the buzzing in his ears subsides, Harry realizes that Louis is pushing weakly at his shoulders. “You big oaf. Get off me.”

Harry heaves himself up onto his elbows and looks into Louis’ eyes. “Don’t want to.”

Louis makes a face. “Too bad. I need food.”

Harry sticks a finger in the puddle of come on Louis’ stomach. “You need a shower.”

Louis grabs Harry’s hand and sticks the offending finger into his mouth and sucks. A shiver runs down Harry’s spine and his dick gives a half-interested twitch.

Letting Harry go with a pop of his lips, Louis replies, with a waggle of his eyebrows, “Maybe we both need a shower.”

Harry giggles.

It’s easy to be with Louis like this. It’s almost familiar, chasing him into the bathroom, fighting over the temperature of the water, grinding and sliding against each other amidst soap and steam.

Harry doesn’t know what to order Louis for breakfast from room service, so he orders six meals instead of two and pressed together on the couch in front of ESPN they devour an omelette apiece, a stack of french toast, and an order of bacon.

A wave of tiredness hits Harry as the food settles in his belly. He wants to talk to Louis about what’s next for them. Even if the plan didn’t exactly get off without a hitch, Harry thinks it’s turned out pretty well. He thinks he might win the game, _win Louis,_ after all.

But that can wait, he decides. He needs a short nap first.  

_~_

Harry blinks his eyes open. Across from him, the sportscaster is buzzing about baseball’s spring training prospects. His voice grates on Harry’s nerves, as he realizes it’s the fucker who always goes on about how Harry’s talent is overrated.

He’s right and Harry hates to hear it.

He stretches and his stomach rubs on the fabric of the couch. Fabric, not leather, like the one in Harry’s living room. Harry sits up and looks around. He’s in a hotel suite, a hotel suite that smells like bacon and… sex. The details of the night and the morning after rush back to him.

“Louis?” he calls out.

He remembers Louis hushing him back to sleep in the midst of his nap, smelling sweet, fresh from a second, likely more effective shower, a newspaper in hand. The newspaper sits in the chair beside Harry. From its front page, Liam stares back him, eyebrows drawn together, tears streaming down his cheeks, and a disbelieving smile plastered across his lips.

Harry grins back at him for a moment, proud and a little jealous.

“Louis?”  he calls out again.

Still no answer. He wanders into the bedroom. Louis’ not there either, nor is he in the little ensuite kitchen or the bathroom.

Harry checks his phone.

_Sorry to run out, babe. Flight to New York this afternoon !_

Harry checks the time. He’s got a flight into the city this afternoon as well and disappointment spirals in chest. He wishes they’d have left together. He wouldn’t have minded a couple of extra hours napping in the VIP lounge.

Because, well, the thing is, Louis wasn’t supposed to get away this time. This time, Harry was supposed to declare his love. He had planned to promise a decade full of grand gestures until the height of their sports careers had passed and they could finally be together, in the same place, maybe have a couple of children and a dog.

Harry texts back the saddest set of emojis he can dig up. Sad face. Cry face. Thumbs down. Poop.

Everything is ruined. A bitter wave of frustration courses through him. He checks his phone for the time again, wondering if he can fit in a quick hard workout at the hotel gym before he needs to leave for the plane. Nothing clears his head like a grueling run.

Just that moment, his screen lights up with a call. _Louis._

“Hey,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice even. He thinks he’s not very successful.

“Dinner?” Louis asks, as if it is a sensical question.

“What about it?” Harry replies, moving toward the bedroom to pack. He probably doesn’t have time for the gym, if he's being realistic.

“Do you want to go with me?” Louis replies. Harry picks Louis’ boxers up off the floor. He wonders if this means that Louis is commando.

When Harry doesn’t answer, Louis adds, “In the city. To celebrate.” 

“To celebrate what?” Harry asks. He doesn’t feel very celebratory. Louis is returning to England soon and, while they’ve fucked, they haven’t declared their love for each other or agreed to be boyfriends.

“It’s a surprise,” Louis says.

Harry sits down on the bed and sighs. He likes surprises. He likes the idea that Louis has a surprise for him. Plus, this will give him another opportunity to subtly propose marriage and babies and a forever together. “Okay. Text me the time and place.”

~

Louis is bouncing in his seat when Harry arrives and Harry is surprised. Not because of the bouncing, that’s normal as far as Harry can tell. But because he’s early. Louis is never early, not to practice, not to dinners with his mum, not to the few Skype calls he's had with Harry.

But here he is, waiting for Harry at a busy, expensive restaurant, dressed fancier than Harry’s ever seen him. Beside him on the table is a single rose.

He stands up when he sees Harry and pulls him into a tight hug. When he pulls back, he hands Harry the rose and says, “It’s official.”

Harry shakes his head and laughs. “Hooray,” he says. And then, “What's official?”

“I’ve transferred to the MLS. With New York!" He reaches out to grab Harry's wrists and pull Harry's hands to his chest. "You and me, we’ll be playing in the same stadium. Harry, let’s move in together." He seems to realize the presumptiveness of this because he quickly backtracks. Sort of. "I mean, if you want. Because I'm a great roommate. And I know how lonely you get and how you wish that sometimes you could have a turn walking my dog.”

Louis thinks he's being funny, covering his flub with a joke. Harry can see his discomfort in the tightness of his shoulders and the worry in his eye. But it's true, everything he's saying and Harry wants to kiss him. But he’s aware of where they are, all the people around, watching them with curious, hungry eyes. He settles for another tight hug. Against Louis' hair, he murmurs, “Of course, yeah. Like, what, though? I didn’t even know you were-”

“I’ve been wanting to be close to my mum and to, like, _you,_ for a while now,” Louis begins to explain, pulling away and sitting down.

“You’re really coming home?” Harry asks, following suit and returning to his chair too, even though he doesn’t want to. He wants to run laps around the restaurant. To dance. To shout. He’s so _excited._

“I mean, I could move back in with my mum, but I was hoping that maybe we-”

Harry cuts him off, meaning to clarify. “Of course, we’ll, like, be together. _Live_ together. I’ve always dreamed, like, but never really thought... ” He trails off.

Louis reaches out and grasps his forearm. “I’m so lucky,” he says. “So lucky to have found you.”

Harry smiles. “Not luck.” With his free hand, he pulls out his airplane and kisses it. “Fate.”

 ~

 

_**Four Years Ago**_

_A text buzzes in from Niall Horan. He’d slept on the guy’s couch the night before after a long evening of guitar lessons. He’s been warned about getting too friendly with journalists, but Niall mostly reports on college football, so Harry figures he’s probably okay. For now._

_The text is a picture of a dog swimming across a lake with a McDonald’s cheeseburger in its mouth._

_Harry laughs and opens up a new text. But before he has a chance to type anything in another text beeps in._

he’d better be bringing that to me. im hungry! !

_Harry doesn’t recognize the number and frowns. Niall’d clearly brought him into some sort of group text._

_He doesn’t have to wait long to figure it out because Niall replies right away._

ur always hungry tomlinson.

 _Tomlinson. Harry’s closes his eyes  and then opens them again. His pulse is rushing. As in_ Louis _Tomlinson? As in the man of Harry’s dreams? His destiny?_

_Drawing a shaky breath, he types ‘Tomlinson’s’ number in a new window._

Louis? This is Harry Styles. Niall added me to the group text.

 _It doesn’t take long for the reply._ harry from the bathroom? ! !?

 _Harry can’t help the loud laugh that escapes him. Louis_ does _remember!_

Yeah! :)  xx.

 _Louis replies with selfie_. _In it, he’s sweaty and grinning, clearly fresh off the field. He’s captioned it,_ well hello babe.

 


End file.
